Stroke
by Zizi.West
Summary: On their first date, she asked Endeavour Morse: "It's full time with you, isn't it?" Nurse Monica Hicks also thinks about her job while she's off duty - especially after the well-to-do victim of a suspicious car accident arrive at the hospital where she works. Find out what she and the detective, who is learning more about his emotions and himself, do after hours.


**STROKE**

A Monica Hicks/Endeavour Morse fanfiction story

Author: Zizi West

Word count: 5,852

_Disclaimer: _I do not own these characters and do not profit from them. Story content & style are all mine.

Warnings: sexuality and social realities.

**Chapter One: High and Low**

"Odd git, Morse," the policeman on desk duty said under his breath, scowling as the long-limbed detective first knocked a sheaf of papers to the floor, then carefully re-stacked and squared it up in a wire basket, clearing his desk before leaving for the day.

A younger policeman, on the force for less than a year, overheard. "May be odd, but he's not stupid."

"And how would you know, Parry?" demanded the policeman. "You've hardly been here five minutes. Check behind your ears to see if they're completely dry, mate."

Blushing, the junior officer persisted. "He seems to know how to find what others miss, sort things out. Solve puzzles. Notices what others don't see."

Endeavour Morse stepped back from his desk. At least they'd lowered their voices during this latest deconstruction of his character. No matter. In seconds he'd be out of the building and striding back to his flat.

Pub? Not tonight. Sergeant Thursday had left police headquarters early to attend to a family matter, and the prospect of sitting in the pub without the older man's conversation didn't appeal. Morse had little to add to discussions of sport and quickly wearied of listening to other men drone on about the female sex as though they were a dimwitted yet threatening alien species. Why listen to that tosh when he could be in the warm, living presence of a rather lovely woman? Monica had left him a note that morning to tell him that she'd be home early, free for a few precious hours from the strenuous rotations of her hospital work schedule. Endeavour had kept the small square of smooth light blue paper with her neat, clear handwriting. His fingertips brushed against it now as he checked his trouser pocket for his keys.

"Leaving, earlier than usual, Morse?" Parry asked.

"Yes...a few things to see to. Good evening." Nodding at Parry and the desk officer, Morse left, buttoning his overcoat as he went.

"Probably needs a 'seeing to'_ himself_. That might sort him out," muttered the policeman at the desk.

"He's not bloody likely to get any," one of the constables said dryly. "I doubt Morse has much of a way with the ladies."

"Absolutely hopeless," the other man agreed. "Pity he never studied_ that._ There are some things a university lecture can't teach you."

…

The Vespa 150 VBB scooter buzzed more than it purred, then made a low _clunk _sound as though its two-stroke engine felt dissatisfied _About time I took you in to the repair shop, dear thing, _Monica Hicks thought.

Vibrations moved up through the well-sprung scooter seat to her hipbones as she drove over smoother sections of tarmac. If only those vibrations would reach her aching lower back! She knew about various vibrating massage devices said to ease tension and bring relief to parts of the body - including some rather private places - but they were expensive and she felt shy about buying one at the chemist's, where everyone knew her. Well managed as the hospital was, staff provisions didn't include physiotherapy equipment provided to help staff recover from a long and busy shift.

Braking, Monica paused at an intersection while pedestrians crossed. She listened carefully to the idling engine, noting a sharp, high tone. Students and full-time Oxonians moved past, some nicely dressed as though anticipating social events. Waiting gave her a moment to flex and rotate one ankle, then the other.

She'd been on her feet much of the day: making her assigned rounds, bending, stretching, and helping the groggy victim of a car accident when emergency staff had been shorthanded. Two strong orderlies got him onto an examination table just before the man, redolent of sweat and alcohol, vomited. Monica and Charity, a junior nurse who often worked with her, rushed to clean the patient up as the attending doctor glared impatiently.

"Sorry to ruin your suit, sir, but it's so we can help you more quickly," Monica said as she used scissors to cut through the patient's fine wool trousers and jacket, both stained with blood. The man groaned an unintelligible response. As his jacket came away she fleetingly noticed the smooth hand of the fabric, the flat seams and crisp tailoring, but her real concern lay with the injuries beneath. _Toff or working man, they all bleed alike_, she thought.

"Nurse! Can't you get his shirt off faster?" the doctor said irritably.

Monica kept her voice level. "Sorry, Doctor Amies." Holding the scissors in an open position, Monica sliced up and along the grain of the fabric so that she could pull it away in large pieces. It was a technique she'd used when cutting cloth to sew. She peeled away the man's bloody shirtfront and dropped it into a bin with his other ruined clothing.

"No...look, that girl..." The man kept trying to speak, gesturing weakly with his right hand. As she usually did with agitated patients, Monica tried to say soothing, meaningless things. "Easy there, sir. Soon this will be over."

"She...right here. Don't let her..." the man groaned. Monica's breath caught and her shoulders tensed. Certain patients openly questioned Monica's cleanliness, training, and abilities, or insisted that her voice was too loud while they demanded a 'real English' nurse. Locking eyes with Charity, Monica stepped aside and they began a familiar routine. Monica would clean her hands to prevent cross-contamination, then continue to work side-by-side while the brunette, gray-eyed Charity stood working in the person's line of vision. Usually the complaints stopped as a result. Neither of the women liked bending to racial prejudice, but this was an emergency.

Suddenly the man's eyes opened fully and he locked eyes with Monica. "Please, miss...careful. One of you -" his face went slack as he fainted.

Charity moved forward with a disinfectant-soaked sponge in her hand to clean off the blood and uncovered a long gash. "He's been stabbed!" she cried.

"Useless – move!" Dr. Amies shoved both nurses aside and took over. Monica flinched, hurt more by the implication that she worked badly than by his knobbly elbows. Charity glared at the back of Dr. Amies' head, mouthing an impolite, silent insult. If Amies hadn't been a doctor, Charity might have said a few words with a bite much sharper than the disinfectant used in Accident and Emergency. The junior nurse was nice enough to Monica, but her ready temper was at odds with her name.

Monica cleaned up and resumed working. Dr. Amies continued to curse and bark commands, but she respected his skill. Quickly, the doctor ensured that death was not imminent.

Like the man's shirt, the jacket was a loss. A strong smell of alcohol still clung to the clothes. Monica spread the contents of his pockets out on a square of paper before wrapping them into a parcel, writing down the contents on a form: one small comb, a few coins, a wallet made from smooth leather. Nothing inside the wallet identified him, as all it contained were a few high denomination pound notes. Stabbed, but not robbed? Frowning, she slid a finger into a nearly hidden interior pocket of the wallet and withdrew a business card edged with gold.

_Club Crastino_

_in flagrante delicto_

_compos sui_

A telephone number and small image of a laughing face with horns on its head appeared below the text. There were no bloodstains on the card. Monica paused, frowning. Before Dr. Amies pushed her aside, she'd had seen enough of the wound to know that it angled down, a long, angry slash. Neither his jacket nor his shirt were torn. Why would someone put on their clothes – _nice _clothes – over a bloody wound and get into a car? Had the man hoped to conceal the injury until he reached a safe place?

None of it was any of her business, but she couldn't help thinking of Endeavour and the inevitable inquiries from the police. It was possible that Dev would never have anything to do with this situation; the patient wasn't even dead. However, he certainly hadn't stabbed _himself_.

...

Now, as Monica released the scooter's brake and motored on, she wondered about the patient and how he'd come to such misfortune. The cut of his charcoal gray suit looked too conservative to mark him as a bar owner or vendor of goods, legal or otherwise. Professor, researcher, businessman, foreign visitor? Knife wounds before a car accident seemed unusual. Had someone robbed him, or was it a crime of passion?

Dev, as she affectionately called Endeavour Morse, might have seen similar cases while at work, but he so often thought about work while at home. She shouldn't ask him.

Still, she was curious.

…

Morse glanced around his small flat. The leaves of the potted plant looked recently watered. When had his few mismatched plates stacked themselves by size? Even his lone serving dish, glass edged with cheap, thin silver plate, shone as though ready for an elegant dinner.

_Monica_.

She'd set things to rights with her usual quiet cheerfulness and he'd only just now noticed. Perhaps she'd done it over the weekend between shifts at the hospital. Despite his absorption with work and occasional inattention, Monica remained caring and kind, her efforts largely unacknowledged. The pretty nurse carried so many more keys on her ring than he did on his own – her own flat's key, her Vespa key, a key resembling the kind used for small household lock boxes, a key to the flat of family in London, and now a spare key to Morse's own flat.

Pensive, Morse rubbed the back of his neck. What had he done to reciprocate? On more than one occasion Fred Thursday had offered unsolicited advice on how to keep women happy. During visits to the Thursday home, Endeavour observed how the many small kindnesses Fred extended to Mrs. Thursday led to a feeling of comfort for the entire family. Pity that he wasn't good at imitating such an effective method. He should try harder.

Endeavour had carefully told Thursday little about Monica. Not her full name, certainly not where she lived, but the older man's understanding of human nature was keen.

"So she's nice, your young lady?" Thursday asked without preamble, during one evening at the pub.

Endeavour blushed, but managed not to spill his pint. "V-very."

"Good. Be sure to tell her _ahead _of time when you've got days off," Thursday said, and then allowed Morse to change the subject.

…

"Ooh!" Painful tension had settled in to Monica's lower back. Stretching and twisting didn't help enough, nor had the warm shower she'd taken. Shouting doctors, blood, the mistrust of patients – she ought to be used to it by now, but it wasn't easy to let go of all of it some days.

…

Morse was sometimes awkward when he attempted big gestures: trying to impress a woman with his choice of wine at dinner, giving her the right sort of flowers. The way he'd offered Monica his coat had more the coaxing friendliness of a country boy rather than the smooth words of a chivalrous knight, and he'd been surprised when his action lowered the last barriers to frank desire. Perhaps his courtship wasn't always smooth but he could try to do small things well. At least he remembered how she liked her tea. Perhaps he could help her maintain her scooter before he borrowed it again, help move furniture in her flat, do things men were supposed to do.

_Where was she?_ He'd heard her keys jingling nearly an hour earlier, but hadn't yet heard Monica's quiet knock on his door – she always knocked before entering, although she'd given her his spare key. Usually she took time for herself after work, changing out of her nurse's uniform, performing some sort of private feminine magic before he opened the door to see her serene, wearing her own clothes, her face tilted up for his kiss. Endeavour locked his own door behind him and crossed the hallway.

…

Monica exhaled as she leaned down to touch her toes, hoping to relax enough to enjoy Dev's company for a few hours. Another night in with the phonograph would be cozy, but she wished that he'd go to the cinema with her instead, or to agree to take her to one of the more affordable concerts at the weekend. London offered more choices for entertainment, but that was only a daydream. Hotels were expensive and the idea of having a man – detective or not – sleeping under the same roof with their unmarried daughter would send even the most worldly of her family into an apoplexy.

Perhaps she should set her alarm and have a short kip with a hot water bottle nestled against the small of her back. Sighing, Monica wrapped a towel around herself just as a knock sounded at the door.

...

No sound came from her flat. Morse frowned. As his knuckles hovered above the door, Mrs. Tweed, one of the other neighbors turned the corner from the stairway and walked towards him. Her footsteps halted when she saw her tall, blond neighbor outside Monica's door.

"Yes, hello?" Monica said, her voice muffled by the wood.

"Mon – ah, Miss Hicks, it's Morse." He made eye contact with the neighbor as she paused in front of her own flat, two doors down. "Good evening, Mrs. Tweed," he said loudly.

The woman stared at him with open curiosity. "And a good evening to to you, too." She raised both eyebrows. "Nowt wrong, is there?"

"No trouble at all," he replied firmly. Mrs. Tweed lingered, dithering with her handbag and keys.

Monica quickly understood his formality as a caution. "Just a moment, Mr. Morse." Her voice sounded prim, as though she were answering a phone call at work. When Monica opened the door, Endeavour began speaking right away. "Sorry to bother you, Miss Hicks." He tilted his head slightly to the right.

Monica wore an unfastened dressing gown thrown hurriedly over a towel; Endeavour's eyes widened appreciatively, and a corner of his mouth titled up. Monica pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.

Keys jingled two doors down as Mrs. Tweed fumbled with her door and pretended not to watch and listen. Endeavour's eyes narrowed; he crossed his arms and turned his head to look down the hall.

"Problem, Mrs. Tweed?"

"No!" Mrs. Smith cleared her throat. Suddenly the lock worked perfectly enough for her to dash inside and slam her door.

Endeavour and Monica stifled their laughter as she let him in, closing the door against the world. Just as it had been the first time he'd briefly stepped inside, Monica's flat was tidier and more sparsely furnished than his own.

_Each of us spends more time at work than at home_, Endeavour thought. Monica didn't wear shoes inside her own flat, so he removed his own without being asked. A Pan Am airline calendar, a poster from a concert series in London, and a few framed photographs hung on two walls. Some of the photographs were of Black people of various ages: family in and outside England. Larger photographs showed three different groups of nurses: one group mostly West Indian women and one woman who looked Indian; the second all White English women except for Monica; the third, all White English women aside from Monica and a few other Black women. All were photos from Monica's training courses or workplaces. Endeavour kept the lone image of his father inside an envelope. He had no photographs of Monica.

Endeavour noticed the hopeful tilt of Monica's chin and leaned down for a kiss. "Are you all right?"

"I'm just tired, and my back hurts enough to make me wish that I'd stayed at work and sneaked into one of the hydrotherapy tubs. Do you think that Mrs. Tweed knows about us?"

"I don't care if she does. This is Britain and we're both past the age of consent. Lie down; I'll rub your back."

"Massage is among your many talents?" Monica raised both eyebrows, but found an extra towel and spread it over the bed.

"Not really, but I'll do my best for you." Endeavour began to roll up his sleeves. "Tell me if it hurts and I'll stop."

"Thank you, I see that I'm in for a rare treat. Please, turn the water up as warm as you can bear it while you're washing your hands," she advised as she lay down. "That's what I do for patients before applying liniment or cream to bare skin."

"Right," he said, running his hands under the tap. The tiny bathroom smelled faintly of bleach, overlaid with the sweet scents of cosmetic preparations and soap.

Her voice was soft, as though she'd begun to relax simply because he was there. "Look for the cream-coloured plastic bottle."

Endeavour carried it over to the bed, glancing at the label as he sat down: _Palmer's Skin Cream with Cocoa Butter._ Opening it, he poured a small amount of it into his palm to warm it, inhaling the chocolaty fragrance. "Mm. So that's how you keep yourself so delicious."

Giggling, Monica raised her head to look at him. "It's nice to use on a winter morning. Makes you want to lick yourself."

"Makes _me_ want to lick _you_." Endeavour spread the cream over her back, feeling her arch, stretch, then loosen up in response to his touch. He stroked her legs and thighs, pressing down; tiny groans escaped her throat, and he smiled. The cocoa butter made her already smooth skin feel like a satin dress he'd once touched, a dress worn by a different woman he'd been attracted to but hadn't gone very far with. He'd never touched her in the way that made this woman feel so good.

Morse warmed more cream in his hands and retraced the path of his hands, massaging her shoulders. "Where do you find this stuff?"

"London, whenever I make family visits," Monica replied, her eyes half closed.

"Posh lady, with your London tastes...but then you can't always find what you need in Oxford, can you?"

"Observant gentleman." Monica smiled. "African and Caribbean shops sell cocoa butter, hair preparations, properly tinted cosmetics from America," she said. "Sometimes my cousin sends me parcels."

"That's kind. Must be nice to have people look after you." He pressed and stroked the muscles along her spine. The world must look very different to her in some ways, for all that she was English. As though sensing his thoughts, she changed the subject. "Cocoa butter is very good for the skin. Let me put some on you, Dev. Not that you aren't already delightful to hold on to."

Endeavour grinned. "No one's ever called me _delightful_."

"Ah, but they should do." She stretched beneath his hands again, her hips undulating. "Mmm."

Dev stopped breathing, swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. He undid a few shirt buttons and continued the massage, concentrating on her lower back.

"Ooh, yes, Dev...just like that. Mmm, thank you for all of this. I've been tense for hours."

"Something unusual happen at the hospital today?"

Monica told him about the stabbed man, the brusque Dr. Amies, and her routine with Charity.

"Hmm. People should be grateful that the NHS exists. They're rude and ignorant. You wouldn't be at that hospital if you weren't qualified. How often do you do that race routine?"

"Less often than when I started in nursing, but more often than I'd like. Really, now I'm not sure that it we needed the routine this time. I'm not sure _who_ that man meant by what he said before he fainted: 'One of you'. But before that he called me 'miss', respectfully, and told me to be careful. Of what, I don't know. He may have been delirious. Maybe he meant West Indians? Or women?" She sighed. "Patients should just let me help them. Will that day ever come?"

"For some. Others will keep being suspicious," Morse said. The movement of his hands slowed. "Stabbed, you said. How?"

"A long wound, down. As though someone held the knife like this." Monica gestured. "Missed his lungs and heart, though it was on the left. He'll have very sore ribs too. Little risk of infection as of tonight; he should be able to go home in a few days. The police were informed, but no information about a missing person had been communicated to staff by the time I left." She turned onto her side, modestly holding the towel over the front of her body. "Something's a bit off about this whole thing, if you ask me. Do you think you'll be assigned this case? Whoever stabbed him didn't rob him; this man was still carrying five ten-pound notes."

Dev frowned slightly. "What else? No cards, papers, identification?"

Monica rolled her eyes. "And to think that tonight of all nights, I thought to avoid talking about work with you! No identification, and he was drunk and in pain. Never told us his name, family to call, nothing. I only found one card, and that without a name."

"Mm." Endeavour's long fingers flexed, and he glanced around, then seized a small pad of blue notepaper from the bedside table. "Need a biro -"

Monica sighed, and pointed at a drawer in the table. Endeavour pulled out a pen and handed it to Monica with the paper.

"Please write down exactly what you saw on that card."

Carefully, she drew a rectangle the size of the card, sketched the laughing devil's head, and wrote down all she could remember, hesitating at the last line.

"I'm not certain the telephone number is right, and there were more words – something Latin, not a medical term. The nuns at school taught us the Greek words in the Order of Service – _kyrie eleison –_ but we weren't taught much Latin."

"Can you try anyway? I may recognize it."

The pen moved across the little rectangle. _Flagrante delicio_, _compos sui, _she wrote, adding apologetically, "That's not it exactly."

Dev made a sound that was, for him, close to a laugh. "_In flagrante delicto," _he corrected gently. "It means to be caught in the act of committing an offense, that offense usually understood to be a sexual act. _Compos sui _means 'having the use of one's limbs'. Doubtful that it's used in the legal sense here. Don't think one will find the Crastino Club in the telephone directory either. _Crastino_, more Latin. Means tomorrow, or the day after."

"Procrastinate," Monica said.

"Exactly. The Tomorrow Club." Endeavour looked pensive. "How would you describe this man?"

"Fifty, perhaps. Hair barely greyed at the temples. Perhaps handsome under better circumstances. Life treated him well until tonight. Wealthy people often look...cared for, quite different to many people who come to our hospital."

Dev's expression sobered. "Shouldn't wonder," he said dryly. "How was this man when you left?"

"Resting quietly. The pain medication he'll be given may make him difficult to understand when you go in to talk to him as part of your investigation."

"_When?_ Monica, I may never have anything to do with this case, if there's enough to build a case at all."

She wrapped the towel around herself and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. "Perhaps not. But you're already interested in this, and you won't let it go until you know more. May as well begin writing up your plan for the investigation." She reached for her dressing gown. "Those are all of the details I've got, Detective Inspector. Thank you for the massage. Would you like tea?"

"'Ere now, take that off." Dev slid the sleeve off her shoulder. "What sort of masseur do you think I am, leaving a lady unsatisfied?"

"You're busy. I understand," she shrugged. "No other member of my harem has a side job with the police. You're still my favorite."

"Send the rest of your harem away on holiday." Endeavour smiled as he coaxed her back into her original position on the bed. "Yes, I was distracted. Never said that I was finished." He pressed a kiss to her neck, then sucked her skin between his teeth, and Monica's toes curled.

"You're so...smooth." Endeavour's hands wandered, not simply massaging now, but caressing her hips, shoulders, her belly, her legs. "Ah, Monica, I didn't _know_."

"Dev, you've touched my bare skin before."

"We should save coins to leave the lights on. All of you is so beautiful." His voice held a rare sound of raw yearning; Monica touched his face.

"I mean it. Beautiful here," he leaned down to kiss her face, "here," he continued, moving so that he could kiss her nipple, "and here too." Endeavour planted a slightly wetter kiss on to the place where her hip and thigh joined.

"Also _here_, though I won't tell anyone." Turning her over, he gently bit the curve of one buttock, and she giggled. "When I finish rubbing your back, turn over and I'll tell you what else I like."

One hip tilted as she began to do just that, but his long fingers curled around her hip and held her in place. "Just a moment, Miss."

"Back to formal address? Aren't you polite, saying 'Miss' while I'm undressed." Monica felt the mattress dip slightly as Endeavour rose up on his knees.

"Nude or not, you're always a lady as I see it." White cloth flew over the side of the bed and landed on a chair - his shirt, followed immediately by another flash: his singlet. Monica rolled onto her side and sat up, holding the towel at a tantalizingly low place over her cleavage.

"Lay back down, woman," he teased.

Monica's gaze dropped to his waist as Endeavour stood at the foot of the bed, unfastening his trousers. "What, and miss seeing this? Not me."

A rosy flush spread across his face, neck, and chest, but Dev looked more pleased than embarrassed. He pulled his trousers down over his hips, worked his feet free of his socks. The front of his shorts seemed barely able to contain him as his erection pressed against the thin cotton. Monica inhaled sharply, audibly. Dev's blush spread a little further, and she saw his chest rise and fall more quickly.

"Excited?" she asked quietly.

The raw sound returned to his voice. "For you."

She felt her own body opening, softening, her pulse racing. "Do you like being admired, Dev?"

Smiling, he nodded. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the towel, and her voice sounded unsteady in her own ears. "Do you like being wanted?"

Endeavour's lips parted slightly; he drew in a shuddering breath. "Yes."

Between her legs she felt slippery and full, almost aching. "Does it bother you that I like...what we do together...so much?"

His eyes widened with the earnest expression she'd become too fond of. "No one else had touched me for a long time until you helped me, looked after my back. Almost no one touches me unless they mean to give me a kicking. I _want_ you to touch me." Endeavour moved closer.

Monica lowered her feet to the floor and stood, tossing the towel onto the bed. Endeavour pulled her close. She touched him everywhere she could reach. A slight tug on a handful of his hair; the pads of her fingers gliding along the planes of his cheekbones. Her lips brushed the hardness of his chest; her little finger traced a circle around his navel. When her hands reached the waistband of his boxer shorts her boldness faltered.

"Please," Endeavour said, "if you want -"

Monica pressed her hands flat over his hips to stop their trembling. "It's obvious, isn't it, that I've never done this before? Undressed a man, I mean. Unless it was for work. Oh!" She fought the awkward flow of words as she felt her face grow hot. "I'm not being glamorous or seductive right now."

"Really? I feel very well seduced." He smiled and kissed her. "Let's make it easier." His warm fingertips slid over the backs of her hands, and together they moved the shorts out of the way and down his legs.

Endeavour reached for her hand. "I didn't come here tonight just for this," he said, "if you're still worried."

"This isn't why I let you in tonight," Monica answered, which was only half true. She liked his company, yes. No part of her working day had prepared her to be standing nude and face to face with an equally nude Dev before she'd even had supper. Not that she objected. She wanted him quite fiercely, in any way that she could have him. Even if they only lay in bed talking Monica wouldn't protest as long as she felt his skin touching hers.

But of course she wouldn't tell Dev any of that, despite his earlier reassurances. Perhaps a hundred years from now, women would speak honestly about their physical desires without fear that their behavior might later be turned against them. The men they wanted would accept their women's words, basking in them without judgment or worrisome fragments of ideas about what a decent woman wanted from a man. Until that day, she would look and touch and be careful.

As though reading her thoughts, Endeavour took the lead, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her deeply. Monica kissed him back, touching her tongue to his; goosebumps rose on her skin when he groaned in response. Within seconds the hardness poking at her belly made it difficult to maintain their embrace. Endeavour pulled away and lifted Monica into his arms, drawing a surprised squeal from her; she knew he had a wiry strength suited to his build, but she hadn't thought of him as the musclebound type who would carry her off. Dev could be strong and passionate, and she was going to enjoy learning just how much.

"Let's leave the lights on," he said. "I want to you to see every time I touch you."

A _clunk_ sounded from the meter, plunging the room into darkness and prompting a disgusted grumble from Endeavour. "Or perhaps not."

Monica kissed his cheek. "Put me down for a moment."

Unwished-for cool air flowed over his body as she moved away into the room, which was faintly illuminated by moonlight and street light shining through a gap in the curtains. Endeavour heard a drawer opening and closing while he willed his erection not to go completely down. There was a scratch, the acrid smell of a safety match, and a candle flared to life. He saw the outline of her shoulders, her bare breasts, her hands as she placed a second candle into a candlestick and lit it. Monica turned to face him in the golden light, and Endeavour felt himself stir back to life.

"Oh," he said, and they reached for each other. It wasn't quite clear who pulled who down onto the bed first.

…

"Rather nice, those candles. Nurses are prepared for anything," Endeavour murmured against the rise of her breast, an hour later. The short nap he'd taken seemed to have recharged him; he wanted to be awake and talking to Monica.

"Hmm, not quite." Monica played with his hair and idly stroked his shoulders in the dim light. "Next time you come over, bring more..." – she pushed her hips against his – "...you know."

After her first time sleeping with Dev on Guy Fawkes Night, Monica had quietly purchased a box of condoms from one of the other nurses at work. The other nurse charged a markup when reselling the prophylactics to more bashful women, but Monica spent the few extra pence without complaint. She preferred to avoid being stared at in the local chemist's by other customers, some of whom might assume West Indian or African girls had hot blood and hotter physical inclinations. The nurses in the nearest family planning clinic knew her by sight, and none of Monica's jewelry could pass for a wedding ring. Morse had his own supply, but she wanted to keep a box in her own flat for spontaneous occasions such as this one.

Unfortunately, the condoms were only three to a pack. _Goodness!_ Never in her life had Monica imagined that she'd indulge her physical desires – and emotional desires too, if she were honest – so enthusiastically as she did with Dev.

Endeavour leaned on one elbow and blinked at her. "No, I don't know. Bring what?" he asked, all innocence.

"You know. More of _those_." She pushed her hips against him again.

He wiggled his hips back. "Come on, say it."

"Dev!"

He moved over her and settled between her thighs, smiling. "More what? You may have more of _this_ any time you like." Slowly, he rotated his hips, reminding her of the pleasure he could give with them. Monica felt herself opening to him again before she controlled her breathing and said, "Slow down, you randy fellow. We just used the last one in the pack."

"I'll buy more tomorrow." He dropped a kiss onto her forehead. "Would you like to go out? It's only seven-thirty."

Before she could say anything, Monica's stomach growled. "Hear that? Your sensual abilities are so powerful that I've burned off everything I ate earlier today."

Endeavour made a scoffing sound, but smiled anyway. "That's a yes, then. I'm taking you to dinner." He hadn't taken her out often enough; here was another chance to prove himself. He kissed her breasts and belly as he left the bed, making her quiver and squirm before he stood up and began to put on enough clothing to decently return to his flat. Monica watched him with an expression he found difficult to read.

"I'll go wash up." Endeavour pulled a coin from his trouser pocket and fed it into the meter; the lights came back on. "Meet you in twenty minutes?"

Monica had donned her dressing gown again; the tension was gone from her shoulders and her hips swayed as she crossed the room to blow out the candles. Her small, knowing smile made her look both sensual and untouched, as calm as the Mona Lisa.

"Twenty-five," she amended, blowing him a kiss. Endeavour pretended to catch it, making her giggle as he slipped out the door.

Endeavour Morse was still smiling when he leaned over the basin to wash his face. He was washed and dressed in twelve minutes. The remaining thirteen he spent writing notes on the case of the stabbed man in the well-cut suit.

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Thank you for reading, and please take time to post a review if you like. This story doesn't follow a strict timeline in relation to the actual _Endeavour_ series, although it takes place following the _Sway_ episode. Next chapter may be up in late January / early February (time permitting).

NOTE: Monica's feelings and experiences – particularly with regard to race, sexuality and gender - are intended to be generally representative of the social and cultural realities of the time, although obviously individual women's experiences varied. Morse, although not especially political, is intelligent and empathetic enough to want to know more about the woman he's spending time with, so it makes little sense for him to ignore or refuse to listen to what Monica tells him.

Although birth control was becoming more widely available in 1966, attitudes about unmarried women's sexuality changed slowly. Monica's most accessible options would have included The Pill, a cervical cap, and condoms. As a nurse with the NHS she would be well informed about how to get these for herself; however, her personal experiences and concerns about how she was perceived might have made her cautious about how and where she obtained birth control. In those times (and in our own time) a woman's personal behavior might still be linked to her professional life.

In addition to various websites and digital publications, many excellent books about the historical experiences of Black British people are available. Please visit a local library or academic library to find out more; it takes more than a keyword search to find out some things!


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